Waiting Room
by Michelle My Belle
Summary: The shadowy organization that shot Red has found Liz, and now it's his turn to take care of her. A Lizzington fic. (Updated with chapter 7 of 8.)
1. Chapter 1

Golden eyelashes fluttered rapidly against pale, clammy skin. Slowly, the dimly lit room began to come into focus. The calming eggshell walls, beige and blue flecked tile floor beneath. Simple yet substantial room darkening curtains and shades hung at the wide windows. Finally, a steady beep like clockwork got his attention and he gathered every available ounce of strength to try to turn toward it. Every move was excruciatingly difficult and required a command-like conversation with his wounded nervous system trying to bring it into submission.

When he finally was able to get his head turned, he saw the IV stand with bags dripping down into his arm and a heart monitor, rhythmically thrumming along and blinking, bouncing blinding green light back at him.

He had lived.

The hot copper ripped mercilessly into his chest but luckily, missed his heart by mere centimeters. Call it luck or a higher power. Whatever it was, there was a reason he was given another day to live. Another day to breathe.

He had to tell her.

He almost didn't make it and he had to tell her. His secrets were too big to be swallowed by the grave.

He tried to worry his brow. That's what he would be doing if he had control over what was happening to him right now. Somehow, being able to express emotions silently, by pinching his features, gave him relief. The cocktail making its way into his veins had stolen all chance of muscle control and began to lull him back into hazy oblivion.

"Agent Keen," Dembe gently placed a hand on her shoulder, interrupting her anxious thoughts. "Raymond has woken. You may go see him now."

She lifted her head from her hands, eyes red and sticky from hours of tears and her makeup long gone. She refused to leave, even though she couldn't be in his room, by his side, she had to stay close by. She wore yesterday's still blood-stained clothes. Dembe encouraged her to at least go home and get a shower; that he would call her if anything changed, but she couldn't will herself to walk out of the door, even if she had wanted to.

The first few hours were the most agonizing. While he was in surgery, the minutes seemed to crawl by, mocking her pain. She paced in circles around the waiting room until she was sure it was bothersome to other people. She stared at magazine articles, not really feeling the mental capacity to actually read anything. Finally, she had reclined in one of the plastic chairs that she was now effectively sticking to. The moment her eyes would slide shut, the gunshot would ring out in her mind and jolt her heart into near tachycardia. Her flashbacks were vividly real, causing stinging tears to prick at her eyes each time it happened. Then the overwhelming guilt. He shouldn't have even been there, exposed like that. If only they hadn't fought. She felt so selfish, drawing him out of safety to confront him about Tom. She had always intended to give him the fulcrum, she just wanted to do so on her own terms. Just to hold the cards, the upper hand and to be in control of one damn thing in her out of control life.

She stood finally, stretching her weary muscles. She would not complain, absolutely not. Any pains and strains from setting up temporary camp in a hospital waiting room was nothing compared to what Red was going through, what he would continue to go through to come back from this.

Unsure of what to expect, she walked toward his room, nodding to the guard at the door. Until he was stable enough to be moved, until Liz could be certain there wouldn't be further attempts on his life, the guard would stay. Although this was an FBI hospital, civilian visitors often coursed through and Liz wasn't taking any chances. Cooper sanctioned the guard in conjunction with a cover story. Red would become Robert Banks and he was being guarded until he could give his testimony in a federal court case involving the kidnapping of the Malaysian Deputy Minister to the U.N.

Not a difficult story to buy into.

With two hands, she pushed the heavy wooden door open and gasped when she took in the sight of him laid out and covered in tubes and wires. His usually warm and almost tanned glow he wore was now a sickly pallor. She realized how she previously discounted how the deep, rich colors of suiting he wore brightened not only his skin, but his whole persona. He looked older, too, and frail. The sight of him so vulnerable when he had always been so strong was more than she could handle.

He must not have been awake for long and was too deeply asleep now to notice the dip in the bed as she sat next to him. She lifted his right hand and held it between both of hers, stroking her thumb back and forth. She would do anything to see those stormy green eyes, to see him smile. A lump formed in her throat at the thought that she could have lost him. That her last words to him were so cutting and harsh. She felt so justified in the moment but now? She would take it all back just to know that he would open his eyes for good and recognize her. It was still unclear if he would and she couldn't imagine him not knowing her, to have lost the last two years of partnership.

Only, it was so much more than that.

With shaky fingers, she ghosted over his cheek, feeling the prickly stubble there. She half-heartedly laughed at the thought of him waking and realizing his need for a good shower and shave and inwardly scolding himself for being seen and touched by her in his current state. Even after a gunshot wound, she imagined, he would want to be meticulous about his appearance. But she didn't care.

His eyes fluttered once again and she tried not to gasp but it escaped her and he winced.

"Red," she whispered, "it's okay, I'm here. You're going to be okay," she said convincing herself as much as him.

"Liz-zie?" he breathed, groggy, and started to cough.

"Shh, Red, try not to talk. You still have breathing tubes. I'll tell the nurses to come and check on you. I have to check in with Cooper, but I will be back very soon."

He nodded and closed his eyes again. Within moments, she sensed by his leveled out breathing that he was once again asleep.

"There's something I gotta say to you when you are awake and I need to get it off my chest before I don't get another chance. But for now, you rest and get better," she whispered down at his sleeping form, wiping at the tears that strayed from the corners of her baby blue eyes. Leaning down, she placed the lightest of kisses to his cheek, lingering for a moment to let the feel of his skin on hers seep into her memory. Of all the times she imagined the first kiss she would share with him, even in any fashion, this scenario never entered her mind. Foolishly, she pushed the idea of him ever being hurt, ever leaving her, far from her mind. She would kiss him again, soon. She would not allow another day to go by where he didn't know just how much he meant to her.

Reluctant to leave, but knowing he needed his rest, she left to inform his nurse that he had woken again and tried to speak. The nurse reviewed his chart and noted that he needed to keep the breathing tubes as a precaution for a few more hours, until he was out of the critical stage. She handed Liz a large sealed envelope indicating it was the items in his possession when he was brought in. Smiling gratefully, she thanked the nurse and left to call and update Cooper. More confident now that she had seen Red's own eyes open, maybe she could stand to head home and get cleaned up. He was going to be okay, she reassured herself.

Once inside her car, she relaxed back into the seat and let a cleansing sigh leave her. Flipping on the map light, she opened the envelope and emptied its contents into her lap. A beautiful tie that made the emerald in his eyes shimmer now covered in rusty brown blood stains. An ivory handkerchief with his initials embroidered in crimson, also carrying the evidence of his wound. The Sig Sauer he never had the chance to reach for to defend himself.

A keychain with a single key and a real estate agent's business card.

Glancing at her watch and hoping it wasn't too late for a business call, she picked up her phone and dialed the agent's number. After a brief explanation of who she was and how she came upon the agent's number, she was shocked to learn that Red had purchased yet another apartment for her. The agent gave her the address and she decided to go see it firsthand.

In the meantime, she called and briefed Cooper on Red's status.

"He's finally stable, but he can't be moved for a few days. Dembe doesn't like it, but I'm more concerned about his wound healing than I am about Red being in anything less than 500 thread count sheets with Evian flowing from the taps. I'm heading home for a quick shower and change of clothes, then I'm going back to oversee the guard shift change at midnight," she informed her boss.

"I'm glad he's okay. And Elizabeth? If you need to talk to someone – about anything – you know my door is always open," he said, hoping the insinuation of her actually really needing to talk to someone would not be lost on her. He knew they, at minimum, had a tight bond and that this was deeply affecting her.

She parked in front of the building and looked up at what must have been ten or twelve stories of a renovated factory turned apartment complex called The Savoy Shoe Factory. It was a rather quiet neighborhood with lantern-like lamps lining the streets and cherry blossom trees in the height of their glorious bloom.

Making her way up the seventh floor and to the apartment at the end of the hall, she took a deep breath in and unlocked the door. Once inside, she gasped out loud, covering her mouth. Tears of surprise and joy began to pool in her eyes and she scanned around taking in the completely furnished loft and all the personal touches that spoke to her heart. They told her that Red paid attention to her, all that she said and even what she did not say. They told her how much he cared. That even though he knew she could be upset with him again for such a wild gesture, that he cared more for her mental and physical wellbeing than about whether she would be pissed at him for doing it.

The bathroom was fully stocked with all her favorite things and deliciously fluffy towels. There was no need to go all the way back to the motel, so she took her shower and got cleaned up at her new place, deciding that to truly know if she could accept such a gift, she should at least give it a try. Everything was decadent, she felt like a princess.

Feeling renewed and a renewed sense of purpose, she made her way back to the hospital with urgency. As she parked, she kept a mental dialogue of everything she wanted to say to Red. To start by thanking him for walking through fire for her, twenty years ago and still today. To thank him for protecting her from herself, even when it made her insane. And finally, to admit that their once fledgling partnership had blossomed in her heart into the deepest love that she had ever known for anyone.

She was careful to tiptoe down the hall to his room, fearing her heeled boots on the shiny tiled floor could wake the dead. It was going on midnight and she was happy to be able get to his room before the guard changeover. She had to get to him before she lost her nerve.

Oddly, the door to his room was parted. As the guard saw her coming, he started toward her with both hands raised toward her.

"He has a visitor," was all the ominous guard would say. She flashed her badge at him and he retreated.

She peeked in quietly, not wanting to disturb if he and Mr. Kaplan were having a moment. She was met with a sight she never expected.

Madeline Pratt sat next to him, exactly as Liz had just hours before, stroking his face and whispering endearments over and over to him and he faded in and out of consciousness.

"Red, Red, please don't leave me. I was wrong…and, and I have decided to forgive you for Florence," she said with the most insincere sounding tearful voice Liz had ever heard. She leaned down and kissed his forehead a few times, knotting Liz's stomach.

She couldn't stand to watch any more of this. She turned quickly to leave and cared not that hot tears streaked her face and ugly sobs escaped. The kind nurse that had handed her the envelope saw her in the hallway and tried to hand her a tissue, tried to ask her if everything was okay but Liz just covered her face and bolted for the door.

If Madeline Pratt is what he wanted, she wouldn't get in the way.

She just had to first convince herself that she could let him go.


	2. Chapter 2

She turned more than a few heads as she hurried out of the hospital. Not a completely illogical place for people to be crying, she thought. Her reasoning just happened to be quite unexpected.

Throwing her car into gear, she sped away as fast as was safe and wove her way through town back to the depressing motel she dared call a home. Not the loft. She wouldn't go back there. Couldn't go back there. Everything would remind her of him. How, when purchasing a second apartment for her, he chose one down the street from her favorite coffee shop. The one with the warm, flaky, chocolate croissants that he thought to bring her one early morning at the office. How, this time, the place actually fit what a young, single FBI agent would be able to afford yet was so invitingly furnished with cozy, yet contemporary things that spoke to her taste and needs. They may have been just things, some unique pottery and a few colorful throw pillows, but they spoke to her of what it could look like if they built a home, built a life, together.

But no. It was settled in her mind, now. She couldn't accept this apartment either. Not with things the way they were. If she was surrounded by things that reminded her of Red, she would just be reminded of Madeline, too.

Madeline Pratt. Just thinking about her made Liz consider a second shower.

_Traitorous bitch._

How could he even consider allowing her the chance to polish the dirt from his shoes, let alone consider her a companion, or worse yet, a lover? She had to be up to something, once again waiting to sell him out to the highest bidder.

_Attractive but treacherous._

She pressed her foot further into the gas, desperate to get out of traffic where she feared she could harm someone, or herself. Back at the motel, she thought, at least she could throw something or slam a door. Scream therapy, maybe. Her heated blood coursed so viciously through her that it hindered her hearing anything but its rhythm.

"Why? Why her?" she screamed into the privacy of her car. What did she have that Liz didn't?

Red had even described to Madeline that his relationship with Liz was fated. That he thought she was 'very special.' Where was all that now? She saddened, then, when she realized the responsibility she bore in driving him away. All the stolen moments in the back of his car and the longing glances and _when you love someone you have no control. _He held her hand, held her together when her marriage fell apart and he held her tightly to him as more and more of her world began to burn. She repaid him for his gentleness with scorn.

At least with Madeline there was no pretense about their relationship. They were both liars but whatever was between them was out in the open. And though one would invariably turn on the other, at least they knew where they stood with each other.

Liz couldn't say the same for her and Red.

If Red was blind enough to be duped by her yet again, then Liz, of all people, would never be able to talk him out of it. The more she allowed her mind to go there, the more she started to rationalize. They were the same age, both wanted criminals. They had traveled the world, sometimes together and they had history. Granted, it was probably less complicated than hers with Red and most likely didn't involve burning buildings and an artifact that could tip the balance of world power. Semantics, she thought.

She dragged her bone weary body up the exterior stairs to her room, dropping her coat, keys and bag on the dingy carpet at the door and locking it behind her. Crawling into bed still clothed, she kicked off her shoes and pulled up the blankets to her chin and prayed for utter exhaustion to take over and save her from her wandering thoughts.

Two hours in, the sound of a hollow gunshot shocked her awake, cold sweat coating her brow. Another dream, or nightmare, as it were. She couldn't get back to him fast enough and even though Dembe was putting pressure on his wound, she had to help, had to make sure he didn't slip away from her. She sat in bed hugging her knees to her chest, trying to shake the images that persisted in her subconscious. He was alive, he had made it and she needed to begin to believe that she was not complicit in the shooting, that she bore no responsibility in what happened but that maybe, just maybe, if she hadn't been there, he might not have made it. As much as she didn't want to imagine him with another woman, she would rather him be alive and happy, fulfilled even, than to die an undignified death in the middle of the street.

As much as she fought to sleep again, to ward off the dreams and constant thoughts of him, all synapses were firing. If she got it off her chest, if she just said goodbye before he surely disappeared with Madeline; perhaps one day she could find closure. Grabbing her coat and keys, she drove back to the hospital.

At the hospital, Madeline was with Red when he again woke, trying to speak but fighting against the tubes still in his throat. She went to the nurse's station and snapped her fingers at the shift nurse, barking at her to quickly come and help Red.

The nurse, ignoring Maddie's condescending behavior, came to Red's side and with a gritty smile, politely told Madeline that she needed to leave. With a huff and a swing of her flashy Italian leather pocketbook, she clipped noisily out of his room and then out into the night.

Skillfully, Red's nurse removed his breathing tubes and raised the angle of his bed. He would most surely feel the need to cough and drink some water, which she handed him when he seemed ready. He was still groggy and his throat was scratchy from the intrusive tubes. He motioned for her to come close so he could whisper to her.

"Rest. Right now you need rest. Your voice will normalize soon," she told him as she placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a kind, reassuring smile.

"Was there a young lady with dark hair here before, or did I dream that?" he was able to whisper just loud enough for the nurse to hear.

"The pretty, young FBI agent? No, she was here a few hours ago. When you were brought in, she asked for an hourly report of your vitals. Not exactly normal procedure, but I can look the other way this time. It seemed very important to her. In fact, she was in the waiting room for nearly two days right up until that other lady showed up," she said, hooking her thumb and motioning toward the hallway and Madeline.

"The agent left?" he breathed, now becoming visibly upset. The heart monitor got the nurse's attention and she crossed to it, silencing it.

"Dearie, you really need to relax. You'll rip that incision right open if you keep up like this," she said, trying to calm him. She was about to push his morphine pump when she felt his hand on her arm. Looking surprised, she leaned down to hear again what he had to say.

"No, please don't, I want to be coherent for this conversation. What did she say when she left?"

"She was fairly distraught. I tried to pull her aside and tell her that you were going to be alright, that you had pulled through the worst of it but she wouldn't stop to listen. I tried to push a few tissues into her hands but she was crying and mumbling something about needing to get out of the way," she said.

"Did she say anything else?" Red asked, a look of terror in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, no, she left so quickly. Now, I need you to relax, for your own good," she said finally hitting the pain pump and waiting until he acquiesced and reclined, heaving a sigh and giving into the comfortable numbness that was washing over him more and more with each beat of his heart.

"Oh, she did mention something about it being important that you had extra blankets," she said pulling another layer from the end of his bed, unfolding them over him.

All he could manage was a crooked smile. Even starched, bleach-white and scratchy hospital blankets felt good to him now. The pleasing weight of the blankets and weightlessness dripping into his body in stark contrast. And Lizzie. She had thought of him, of what would make him feel at home, even in the ICU.

She dimmed the lights and turned to leave. With her hand on the door, she turned over her shoulder and said, "It must be nice, working with the FBI. The agent looking after you seems to really care about you."

Red could only nod. He had no words, for once.

For the second time that night, now nearly morning, Liz entered the hospital and headed to his room. She stopped by the nurse's station first for an update on his progress. Although his breathing tube was removed and he was doing better, the pain was still considerable. Liz told the nurse that he would need to be moved to a private facility for further rehabilitation as soon as he was strong enough. The nurse gave her a knowing smile. In just a few interactions with Liz, she discovered that she was invested in this patient far beyond what was normal for an agent and a federal witness.

He was asleep when she entered his room, eyes gently shut and lips slightly parted. It was darkened, quiet. This time, she sat in the chair, hoping not to disturb him. With any luck, he would never know she was here.

She looked at him for a few minutes, burning the serene image of him sleeping so peacefully into her memory and searching for her resolve. The familiar lump was already forming in the back of her throat. Eyes already stinging with heartache and she hadn't yet opened her mouth.

Finally, but cautiously, she reached up and took Red's hand, lacing her fingers with his.

"I know things have been strained between us," she began, "and I know I have been quick to point out all the ways you have hurt me by withholding information from me and that doesn't change the fact that I was hurt, still am in some ways.

"When you were shot, God, Red, I've never been so scared in all my life. And I don't really remember everything that happened after, just that it felt like hours were passing by in those few moments. It made me think about all the times I have given you the cold shoulder or thanked you for your kindness and generosity with my own sarcasm and ingratitude.

"But you never called me out on it, you just quietly took every blow and I don't know why. I don't know why you kept coming back for more. You walked through fire for me, the least I can do is be honest with you," she took a long, cleansing breath then continued.

"Red, somewhere along the way I fell in love with you," and as the words left her lips, the flood of tears overwhelmed her. She covered her mouth, trying to keep the audible sobs from waking him.

"And I guess I thought that this would bring us closer. We're so fragile and we're not guaranteed tomorrow and I just thought we would finally get our chance," she struggled to get out as the realization of what she was saying crashed over her.

She sniffed and wiped at her tears.

"And it's crazy, right? A criminal and his handler. I don't know how it happened. I mean, I begged it not to happen. But here I am, confessing my feelings for you in the middle of the night just days after you were gunned down in front of me. I should have told you before Madeline.

"I just should have told you, period," she admitted, still tearful and choking down the sobs as wave after wave of reality began to roll in.

"You're going to go away for a while now and I'll try to get over you. I'm not making any promises. But I think this is a good start," she added. She reached into her purse, taking a keepsake she had kept on her every day for nearly two years and placing it in his curled hand and placing a long kiss there with it.

She turned and left the room, not looking back.

The heavy door closing caused Red to stir. He felt a cool heaviness in his hand and lifted it to look more closely.

Tucked into his palm, still bearing the evidence of his own dried blood, was his golden, Montblanc, crossword puzzle pen.

* * *

_A/N: So I totally heard Princess Leia's voice as she frees Han from the carbonite when the nurse tells Red, "your voice will normalize soon." Inspiration and imagery comes from so many places. Thanks for reading. I just love hearing what you have to say – what did you like? What did you not like? More on the way soon!_


	3. Chapter 3

His pen. How could he have forgotten? Well, he could never forget the way that negotiation tactic was thrust into his carotid artery. His Lizzie had stabbed him. And the sick thing was, he was so proud of her for doing it. For challenging him, challenging what was real, safe. He also could never forget her hands on him and her breath right in his ear, her cheek pressed close and her breasts pressed up against his back.

_Violence and sex balanced on the blade of a knife. _

Or a pen. Perhaps the pen truly is mightier than the sword.

That night was the first time she had touched him since the night he carried her from the raging inferno of her past. Now a fierce, grown woman, he was thrilled by her sensuality. His wretched heart was starved enough to take whatever she would give him, even in her blinding white rage.

A deep and peaceful sleep had accompanied him for most of the night and as the new day dawned, the morphine drip began to wear off. His incision burned and stung. If he pressed for more pain killers, he would be immobilized for several more hours and that was just not a possibility. Somewhere, his Lizzie was in pain. Somewhere, she was hurting. This could not go on for one more day.

He could not be stopped.

He removed the pulse ox meter from his finger, blood pressure cuff and nasal cannula. Alarms blared as the machines could no longer register vitals prompting a flurry of nursing staff to sprint toward his room.

Dembe noticed the commotion and stalked down the hallway after them.

The nurses were appalled to find Red sitting on the edge of his bed with his bare legs dangling over the side. His flimsy hospital gown was open in the back, revealing slightly more to the world than just his burn scars. He made to stand on shaky legs when Dembe quickly rushed to his side, pushing an arm around him and pulling his gown closed.

"Raymond, you need to rest. It is too soon to be getting up."

"He's got at least another day before you should move him," the head nurse chimed in.

"I need to get to Lizzie. Besides, I feel fine," he told Dembe, looking up into his kind and understanding eyes. He disagreed with the timing, but if Red was finally going to take his advice and tell Lizzie truths about his feelings for her, then he was going to support his boss and mentor in whatever way he could.

Dembe turned to the nurses. "We are moving him today."

He helped him sit back on the edge of his bed and went to fish for the spare clothing he brought to the hospital for Red. Not his usual finery, but fine clothes, nonetheless. He helped him dress with care, his range of motion hindered by the graze to the lung and the staples in his chest.

He helped Red into a wheelchair despite his string of lurid protests. Dembe had seen Red withdrawal from opioids before. It was never pretty.

"Perhaps we should not go see Elizabeth while you are in this state. We can give it a few hours," he suggested.

"No, I need to go now. I'll manage."

Getting Raymond into the sedan proved tricky. His weakened state required Dembe to, unwillingly, but necessarily put pressure on his upper body where just a breath in the wrong direction sent him spiraling. He was anything but managing this. But true to form, instead of admitting it was too soon to leave the hospital or yelp at the pain, he gritted his jaw, grunted a few times and exhaled severely once finally seated. Rounding the car and out of sight of his stubborn employer and blood brother, Dembe could only shake his head.

Dembe was encouraged a few times to 'step on it,' but when he finally gave in against his better judgement and careened around a corner too quickly, Raymond tipped forcefully into the door, brushing against his fresh incision, causing him to growl in pain.

"You won't be any good to her if we can't get you there in one piece," Dembe shot back to him, eyeing him from the rear view mirror.

Gratefully, they arrived at Lizzie's motel complex a few tense minutes later. Once again, Dembe rounded the car to help his wounded and now very anxious looking boss out of the car. He propped himself against the trunk of the car, reserving energy for that which he deemed more important than standing.

Then it occurred to him. Lizzie's room is on the second floor.

He sighed. There was no way he could make it up all those stairs when just getting in and out of a car was torture. He held his hand expectantly out toward Dembe as if to beg for his clouded and exhausted mind to be read. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Dembe pulled out Red's phone and handed it to him.

The first call rang many times. It was going on eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. She was most likely sleeping.

The second rang once and went to voice mail. Rejected.

Same with the third.

He furrowed his brow and held the tiny blue screen just inches from his face as he struggled to type out: _We need to talk._

Upstairs, Lizzie was fully alert at this point and becoming rather annoyed at being awakened this early on her day off. She reluctantly replied: _I'm not working this weekend. Can't this wait until next week?_

He was not good at this. Nonverbal communication left so much to be desired and he fancied himself a much more direct person.

"Lizzie!" he called. He clutched his side and nearly doubled over, nearly forgetting the wound to his lung just three days prior.

Nothing.

Taking as deep a breath as possible, he directed his lips upward toward her door and again called, with all he had, "Lizzie!"

He was relieved to hear her deadbolt being unlocked from the inside of her room. She swung the door open, stepping out to the railing at the balcony. She was somewhat frustrated at the intrusion, until she saw him.

Their eyes connected instantly and there he stood, leaned actually, just days after almost dying looking as good as ever. Casually dressed, smiling and looking more rested than he had in quite some time. Sexy.

She shook her head, banishing the thought. "Red, what are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you. It couldn't wait another day."

"You really never stop, do you?" she quizzed, incredulous.

"Lizzie, please come down. I would rather not continue to shout and I'd prefer if my audience were only you."

Her stomach flipped. Only her?

She grabbed her coat and keys and headed down to the parking lot, trying so hard to remain casual and to keep her own mask of indifference up.

"Okay Red, what is so important that it couldn't wait another day?"

"You are," he said so quietly, almost in a whisper. His audience was suddenly very intent and interested.

"I don't understand, this isn't about a case?"

"No. I understand you saw Madeline Pratt visiting me."

She hung her head, embarrassed that he would even bring it up. What did it matter? She dug the toe of her boot into the pavement, twisting it and hoping for friction, anything really to stall this conversation from actually happening and completely aware of the duplicity of her own heart.

"Yes, I saw her while I was in the waiting room. But Red? Do you think it is a good idea to be speaking out here with no protection, no covering, just days after an attempt on your life?"

"It isn't. If you'll get in the car with me, there is more."

There was always more with him. The enigma of the push-pull she felt about him was driving her to the edge of what she was capable of handling; because she knew from the moment he sat like a caged bird in her new life that he wasn't everything he appeared to be. Of course there was more.

Dembe came to help him in and she couldn't not notice how painful an exercise it seemed. She rounded to the other side of the backseat and noticed Dembe standing guard outside of Red's door.

Once they were both settled, there were a few moments of awkward silence. Lizzie worried her scar, looking down at her finger tracing back and forth over it and hoping that by some means, it would rush the calming, soothing inner voice it usually seemed to provide. Red could never ignore this habit of hers and briefly studied her curiously. It was so telling.

Finally, it was too much for her. "So, there's more?"

"Oh yes. Lizzie, first, I want to thank you for being there for me, staying with me through all of this. If it weren't for you and Dembe, I don't believe I would be alive to speak of it."

She scoffed. "If it weren't for me, you probably wouldn't have been shot in the first place. It was me, Red, my selfishness, my controlling behavior and it was because you were out in the open arguing with me that you got shot."

"Elizabeth. Listen to me. Those men were, most likely still are, coming for me regardless of your involvement. You are not to blame and I never wanted you to pay for my sins. I want you to understand that. But that is not why I am here."

She was still intently focused on the shiny red scar that made its way from her wrist down into the palm of her trembling hand. "It's not?"

"No. I came to tell you that I did not summon Madeline to the hospital. Actually, I was furious when she showed up."

She brought her wide, surprised eyes up to meet the intensity that was so clearly present in his. She swallowed hard, not expecting to be met with the full intention of Red in close quarters and proximity.

"Really?"

"Really," he responded, level and serious.

"But, I don't understand. How did Madeline even know where to find you?"

"I don't know yet. At the moment, I'm not completely convinced she didn't play a part in the reason I was there in the first place," he theorized. Finally, he was seeing her for what she was.

"Given what we already know, I wouldn't put it past her. I despise that woman," she spat out 'that woman' with pure disdain, making sure that Red understood exactly where she stood on the issue.

"What could you possibly have against Madeline Pratt? Did she put you up for auction in front of other known killers and bounty hunters?" he joked playfully.

While she tried to appreciate his attempt at levity, his joke was lost on her. Pratt had meddled with the wrong man and all she felt right now hearing that woman's name was jealousy and unbridled rage.

"What do I have against her? How about you up against her at the embassy? How about you up against her in Florence?"

"Lizzie, what are you getting at? Madeline and I are two consenting adults and unfortunately we share some history. We don't have to talk about her any further if it makes you feel…" and he trailed off seeing her jaw clench and her stare go out through the window and far into the distance.

"It bothers you, doesn't it? You're jealous. Ah, sweetheart, you know how I feel about a jealous woman," he said, sending his gravelly voice into the lower register. Like a rumble of thunder erupting from the storm of emotions overtaking him at the thought that she might covet him. Might kill for him.

"I am not jealous of _her._ Why on earth would you think I am jealous of Madeline Pratt?"

"Because you want to be the only woman in my life," he answered quickly, before he could think the better of it.

"That's insane, you-" he cut her off, grabbing her hand.

"You are the only woman in my life, Elizabeth. That's what I came to tell you. There's no one else. Not Maddie, not Samar, because I know you've had your suspicions, and no one else. Past and present, there is only you."

Her heart sang. He wanted her.

"So, you're not leaving? You're not going to disappear again?" she asked rather frantically, recalling the last time he was ambushed and the deadly weeks that ensued.

"No," he reassured her, smiling almost sadly. His enemies would meet their end, but he was in no state to go on a witch hunt. Given a choice, he would never leave her side again.

His thumb was gently sweeping back and forth across the back of her hand, lighting her skin on fire and igniting a blaze low in her belly. He had touched her before, but never like this. Now there was truth.

Not all of it, but some.

A full, brilliant smile adorned her lips as she placed her other hand on top of his.

"So, what do we do now?"

* * *

PLOT TWIST: _International art thief Madeline Pratt died last night outside a DC Metro hospital when she walked into the path of an oncoming ambulance. Full story tonight at 11._

_A/N: Ding, dong, the witch is dead. You're welcome, __**hestia-Prytaneum**__. What's next for our hero and heroine? Stay tuned. Please drop me a review if you feel so inclined. Your thoughts make my day!_


	4. Chapter 4

Nearly five minutes of charged silence passed before Liz finally spoke.

"Where are we going, Red?"

He exhaled audibly, shoulders sagging and still staring out the window at the scenery passing by.

"I don't know yet," he said resignedly, fidgeting, then lifting his left palm a few inches into the air and lazily flopping it back down on his knee. "My instructions are to strictly limit physical activity for the next three weeks. And no vigorous activity for six. My apartment in Bethesda is on the fifth floor with no elevator, so you see, Lizzie, I'm don't know where to go. I don't think I could handle stairs right now and my two closest safe houses have been compromised."

He looked down and fumbled with his hands in his lap. She'd never knowingly seen him nervous so she's not sure, but there was something in the way he was looking down and avoiding her eyes. Like he was afraid of what was on the tip of his tongue. Afraid it would bite him back. Afraid she would shy away from him or worse, laugh. His features now revealed a concerned hesitancy and it was starting to seep into her. It had been a long time since Raymond Reddington had been at the mercy of a woman. In all things the expert, in this, he simply did not know how to act, what to say.

"I want to ask you something but I don't want anything I've said today to make you feel any obligation."

She leaned her head severely to the side, trying to look at him in a way that would cause him to look back at her but his gaze remained locked on his tightly clasped hands.

"Red, whatever you need, just ask me. Haven't we been through enough together that if you need a favor you know you can ask?"

From the side, she could see him smile widely as he nodded. Even from this angle, his smile melted her and she craved more. But not only that: she craved more times that were conducive to smiling.

"My, Lizzie. Would you like to be the pot or the kettle in this conversation?" he asked, somewhat jokingly.

A wave of embarrassment and regret washed through her. He had been there all along just wanting to help her and waiting for her to allow him the honor. She repaid his kindness with bitterness, distance and secrecy, attempting to handle things on her own and proving that she could be independent. What she had failed to see all along was that there was nothing weak about accepting his help. Unlike Tom, who was in intelligence purely for personal gain, Red's intentions were always in service of protecting her.

"For the sake of argument, I generally prefer to be the kettle but I thought we were past all of this now. Why don't you tell me what you want me to do for you? There's a really good chance I might say yes."

He cautiously lifted his eyes to meet her sparkling inquisitive ones that were trained solely on him, patiently awaiting his answer.

"What did you think of the apartment?" he finally asked, a tentative and hopeful raise of his brow, animating his previously downcast features. A completely spontaneous and involuntary smile spread across her face, lighting it up. She shook her head with a bit of a laugh and his heart melted. If only things were simpler, if only he could live solely to make her laugh, he would die a happy old man.

"How did you know?"

"The real estate agent called me to ask how you liked it," he said. He inhaled deeply before starting again, his voice now lowered to a near whisper. "I had told him when I bought it that it was a surprise. I wanted to tell you about it that day but then..." and as he trailed off, turning to once again look out the window, her heart sank. The day she had gone to tell him she was done with him, that she wanted nothing to do with him ever again was the day he held the key to her new home in his pocket.

"Red. The apartment is perfect, exactly what I would choose for myself, actually. I know I was stalled in that motel, I know. It has been easy to become mired in the feeling that my sham of a marriage - that anything like that - could happen to me again. I never want to be in that place again."

"You never will be, Lizzie," he said looking deadly serious into her eyes. She felt the weight of his words and the intensity of his stare, clingy and palpable like a humidity that settles on the skin and lingers as a reminder of its presence.

"So what are you asking," she queried, fairly certain she knew the question. And the answer.

"I need somewhere safe to stay for a couple of weeks with an elevator until I am able to do the five flights of stairs up to my 'weird little apartment' again."

Inwardly, she was losing her shit, but she had learned a thing or two from Red in the last two years about the benefits of maintaining a poker face.

"Stay with me, Red."

/

She helped him to her bedroom and into bed. He propped himself against the headboard, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Once he was comfortable, she went to get him a glass of water for his long-overdue dose of pain medication. He tossed back the large, round white pill. Her curious eyes followed the rim of the glass as he lifted it to his lips, his eyes closed as he drank and swallowed and she just stood there enamored, watching him do the most menial of tasks.

Gingerly, she crawled in to join him. He was visibly more relaxed now here in her new place, her own safe house of sorts. He was safe now. Safe under her watchful eye and now, she thought, she too could finally relax. She kicked off her shoes and without a second thought, offered to help him out of his. He stared blankly down at his feet, far out of his grasp. He pursed his lips and nodded, realizing this would be just the beginning of all the many ways he would require help with his daily routine in the coming weeks.

She took her place beside him again and as they both settled themselves, he turned just enough to catch a glimpse of her finally looking around the room, taking everything in. These were some of his favorite moments, looking upon her when no one else, not even she, knew he was. Intoxicated, in part by her beauty and in part by medication, he wasn't completely ready to speak when she turned back to catch him staring intently at her. Now that they were alone, she had no idea what to say to him. She was sure if they went back to talking about the shooting that she wouldn't be able to hold back the tears.

"This reminds me of the first time I broke a bone," he started, breaking the silence. Of course he had a story. "I was nine years old and I remember sitting in my parent's bed, just like this, in between them. Just waiting for them to say something really important to me about not endangering my life ever again. At the time, I thought they were angry with me but I came to realize later on that they were just scared of what could have happened, of losing me."

The thought of losing him, of waking up one morning to a sick reality that Raymond Reddington wasn't a part of made her stomach churn, made her want to scream and claw at his chest and crawl inside. She blinked once, twice, shooing the parallels from her mind.

"Oh? What happened?" she asked, trying for normalcy.

"A shotgun, a tree and a dare," he began.

She smiled warmly, still trying to picture Raymond Reddington as a nine year old. She wondered, do nine year olds wear three piece suits?

"Little Phillip Stephanson knew I was becoming a good shot with a BB gun and dared me to shoot a tin can out of a tree, only I had to climb another tree to do it. Also, breaking the original terms of the dare, he brought a shotgun instead of a BB gun. That was the day I learned about recoil," he said, finally letting a sad little chuckle escape.

She can't help but feel drawn in by another tale of his, but this is so much more than his standard aquatic life story. He expectantly waited for her to scold him about endangering his life, how things could have been so much worse. Just a mere centimeter, really, and she'd be alone. She refuses the thought. Raymond and Elizabeth have no hope of moving forward if either of them clings to all the 'what if's' that plague them.

As if sensing her distress, he rescued her once more with some small talk. They settled into an easy conversation, but in this comfortable bed, in this new place they have found themselves in, both had grown drowsy. They fought against heavy eyes, both unwilling to part from the sweetness of this new level of intimacy.

"It's late," she began, swinging her legs over her side of the bed, "and you are under orders to get plenty of rest in the coming weeks." She stood, stretching her aching limbs for a moment before rounding to his side of the bed. "Is there anything I can get you before I head out to the couch?"

He looked up at her dumbly, sleepy eyes searching hers. "Lizzie, I assure you that you are completely safe sleeping next to me. Even if I wanted to try something, remember, six weeks?"

"Very funny. Sounds like your meds have kicked in," she smiled, tucking the extra blankets up and around him.

He caught her hand before she could pull it back from the blankets. "I'm not joking," he leveled the best impression of serious he could with her surprised expression. He knew it was a risk, he took it anyway.

The thought of spending the night lying next to him made her stomach flip. All night, just lying there right next to him and maybe letting whatever was going to happen, happen. She looked down at their hands, how good and small hers felt in his. She couldn't help but think of how achingly well their bodies would fit together in every other way imaginable but in that moment, she noticed that his hand bore the evidence of the IV and other scrapes and bruises. She wouldn't dare add to his wounds, physical or otherwise. Flashing a brief smile, she dropped their hands, heading to the couch and turning off the bedroom light behind her.

Settled on the couch for the night, she let a soft 'good night' pass her lips, unaware if he was still conscious or not.

"Mm. Night, sweetheart," he breathed as he rolled into the warm side she vacated. Pulling her pillow in tight, he breathed in the sweet scent she left behind and let his heavy lids close peacefully.

The amber glow of morning sun peeked through her curtains, warming her face and drawing her slowly from her sleep.

In her bedroom, Red was awake, staring distantly out the window. She cleared her throat, drawing his attention to her form as she leaned lazily in the doorway.

"Sleep well?"

"Better than the hospital, that's for sure. Thank you for not waking me every hour to take vitals, by the way."

Smiling, she crossed to sit carefully on the edge of her bed next to him. He looked better this morning, more rested. He smiled up at her as she reached behind his head to help him sit, fluffing and stuffing a few pillows behind him.

"I'll go make us coffee and a bite to eat for breakfast," she said, patting his forearm and dragging her fingers across his skin as she walked out of the room.

The coffee isn't even done dripping when there is a knock at her door. Instinctively, she reaches for her service weapon, but it isn't there. She isn't even fully dressed yet, still in her red Cornhuskers tee and comfy grey leggings. She slinks toward the door, eyeing the peephole suspiciously. From the other side, she hears a familiar voice.

"Elizabeth, it's me," Dembe says through the door.

She breathed a relieving sigh and unlocked the door, letting Red's bodyguard in. He had armloads of stuff: a navy blue garment bag and matching toiletry kit, a hat box and what appears to be some sort of elegantly gift wrapped box in gold.

"He's in bed," she said to the unspoken question. "Coffee?" But he had already stalked back through the apartment toward his friend. His loyalty always warmed her and she wondered, how often they actually spend a night apart. It didn't seem like a usual occurrence.

She put the finishing touches on the omelet for two she was making out of the random ingredients she found already in the fridge. It felt good to cook for someone, to take care of someone's needs. With eggs divided, plated and coffee poured, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Dembe sat at the edge of the bed leaning in toward Red, much like she had the night before. He and Red spoke in hushed tones while she lurked in the doorway, relishing the rare, endearing scene for a moment. A tiny clink of the china in her hands drew their attention toward her.

"Don't mind me," she began, "I'm just here to make sure our patient doesn't get grouchy from near starvation and lack of prescribed narcotics."

Dembe rose and backed out of her way, motioning to her to take his spot. As she did, she helped Red sit up properly so he could take his medication and have breakfast. Dembe could only stand back and watch in awe as the man he knew as a hardened, closed-off and stunted soul open himself up to the help of the woman he had sacrificed so much for and had loved for so long. It was the beginning of an answer to prayer, a dream come true, long time wish fulfillment in the making.

He bid his friends goodbye, letting himself out and grinning like a fool the second he was out of their sight. Raymond was in very capable hands. Loving hands, even, if he dared think it.

As Liz washed the breakfast dishes, she began to wonder what she and Red were going to do with all the time they had together. He was stationary for the rest of the week and she had taken some accrued time off from work to be there with him. Things between them were shaky right up until the shooting and they still weren't on a firm footing. Even with his recent warmth and admission, she still wasn't sure that put them in the curled up in bed with classic movies and each other sort of place.

There was only one way to find out.

* * *

_A/N: I do not own The Blacklist. I am also not a medical professional. The details in the story were bent to my will and not vice versa. I would love to hear your thoughts on this story! _


	5. Chapter 5

Liz went back to her room, once again taking his side in her bed, ready to relax for the day with him. Sufficiently caffeinated, fed and comfortable, she stretched out with a yawn, eyes closed and back arched, letting out a huge sigh as she came back to herself. He watched her unabashedly, eyes raking over the curve of her breasts, up her elongated, milky white neck and finally to regard her contorted face. In that flash of a moment, he imagined her in the throes of passion, holding on to her headboard for leverage and, as he tended to do in these daydreams, he pictured his body settled over her, thankful to be present to a moment such as this.

He quickly looked away before she could see the evidence of hunger growing in his eyes. As he trailed his eyes over her soft grey leggings and toward the end of the bed, he noticed that she was barefoot. He had never seen her feet before, which in and of itself was a seemingly trivial detail, but it was all the small things that endeared her to his heart. The shiny red polish made his weakened heart pick up the pace.

A silence hung between them with what she would call a slight tension, something she tried to play off, but annoyingly, something he always seemed to have a sense about.

"I have something for you," he said as he retrieved the gift box on the nightstand that Dembe had brought with him.

"When did you have time to get me a present? And what for?" she asked, incredulous but dropping her guard, smiling and lighting up Red's face like the afternoon sun.

Her smile. And all he could do was stare at her mouth, his mental to mechanical synapses clearly slowed by narcotics. Or so he told himself.

She nervously reached for the package, storing away the image of his eyes on her lips for another time, perhaps another place. He nodded permission to her questioning look and she began to meticulously peel back the corners of the embossed foil wrap, afraid of tearing it. Beneath, three burgundy leather bound volumes, delicately gold tipped. Sliding them on their sides, she turned the spines toward her to read the titles.

"_Anna Karenina, A Hero of Our Time, Crime and Punishment_. These used books are for me?"

"Yes. Lizzie, these were found among your mother's possessions. I thought you might like to have them," he trailed off sadly.

"You've been keeping them all this time?" she looked at him, wide-eyed and so deeply touched she didn't know what else to say.

"They've been on the bookshelf in my apartment just waiting for the right moment. If you'll open the cover, she inscribed her given name in each book, which is why I needed to keep them until you knew what that name really was," he explained.

She opened the first book's cover, eyeing Katerina's scripted signature in the upper corner. She stilled for a long moment, feeling Red's eyes on her but unable to stop staring at her own mother's handwriting. When she finally looked back up at Red, her eyes had welled with tears. He worried his brow, fearing that perhaps it had been too soon, that maybe she wasn't ready to accept the truth of her past. He was never much one for apologies, but he felt one creeping up his throat and threatening to spill out.

Before he could, she moved her fingers over the handwriting, tracing the letters over and over, feeling the slight indentation in the page that the tip of the fountain pen had made so long ago. She smiled finally and he felt the air return to the room.

"We write our 'R's' the same way," she noted. "It's so strange, you know? To have someone be such a big part of your past yet know so little about them," she said, searching his eyes for any glint of recognition.

His usually high guard had slipped recently, leaving just enough crack in the armor for her to see the light coming through. She chocked it up to his state of health, post-traumatic stress, heavy duty meds or maybe all, but nevertheless, getting inside the person behind the persona was a revelation. Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, brick by brick his wall had started to come down.

"Will you read to me, Lizzie?"

Another brick.

She agreed, picking up _A Hero of Our Time_ and turning to the first chapter.

"No offense if I fall asleep on you," he quickly added.

"Nonsense. Try to get as much rest as you can and I'll slip out once you're asleep."

"You should feel free to stay. This is your bedroom, after all."

She chuckled warmly, still unable to entertain the idea of sleeping next to him. If it weren't for the medication, she didn't even believe he did sleep, rather he existed more like a variety of mythical creature that appear only at night. Settled back on her pillow next to him, she began to read.

Each page turn, she'd glance over and catch him looking in the general direction of her mouth. A few times, he felt caught and directed his glance elsewhere, in the room, toward the ceiling, sometimes at the page she was reading.

"How are you doing?" she finally interrupted, smiling.

"I almost feel human again," he admitted, and it was truer than she knew, for the healing taking place was not only the way his body was being knit back together, but his heart hadn't felt so light in almost twenty years.

It wasn't long until he was nodding off next to her, catching himself every now and then and jolting awake, eager to relish the time just hearing her voice. When she was sure he was asleep, she slipped out of her bed and out to the couch. She decided to phone Cooper to report on his status, a promise she made to do daily while she was out of the office taking care of him. Even though Cooper had insisted on plain-clothes guards in and around her building, hearing from her daily, he hoped, would help set him at ease about the situation.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can be doing from here? I'm going to go stir crazy in this apartment for an entire week," she complained, beginning to pace the room and comb her fingers nervously through her hair. What was she worried about, Cooper couldn't see her, didn't see her lying in bed reading to Red. No one saw her making him an omelet or fluffing his pillows. She needed to relax and give herself permission to be a caring, nurturing human being for once instead of feeling like a war-machine all the time.

"Elizabeth, you are on leave. Take it and try to enjoy yourself," he admonished her, drawing the words out for emphasis and effect. He sounded like he was smiling, too, which only served to unnerve her all the more. "With Reddington recovering, things are pretty slow anyway."

"But - "

"Agent Keen, thanks for calling in your report. I'll speak to you tomorrow," he said tightly, his inference clear.

Defeat weighed on her until she finally sank under it into the plush couch. She was fully aware that she signed up for this, but she was already going out of her mind trying to come to terms with the logistics of sharing a home with Red for the next few weeks. She couldn't leave him. Cooper wouldn't throw her a bone. Dembe had come and gone.

It was just them.

She decided to busy herself checking out the new place, stopping to admire the furnishings and wondering if he had handpicked them for her or if he had staffed it out. She was lost in trying to imagine Red shopping in a Pier One or shopping at all when an ivory matted, cherry wooden frame on the wall behind the dining table caught her eye from across the room. As she drew closer, she recognized the photo of her and Sam from when she was in elementary school - and not one she had in her personal possession. Perhaps some were handpicked.

From the bedroom, she heard him cough, then groan. Reflexively, she sped across the apartment to get to his side.

"You okay?"

He still seemed startled by the time she got to him and looked around the room, seemingly to clear his confusion. He was in her apartment. In her bed. She sat close, her hand resting on his forearm, then rubbing slowly back and forth. He hadn't imagined it. She was looking down on him with something that he wasn't sure but resembled concern.

"I'm still breathing if that's what you're asking," he replied dryly. She gave him a truly unimpressed look, patted his arm softly and rose to climb in again next to him.

"In fact," he continued, "why don't I read to you this time?" He picked up the book from before, finding their place marked in it and began reading to her.

"_It was then that despair was born in my heart - not the despair that is cured with a pistol, but a cold, impotent desperation, concealed under a polite exterior and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple; I had lost one half of my soul, for it had shriveled, dried up and died, and I had cut it off and cast it away, while the other half stirred and lived, adapted to serve every corner. No one noticed this, because no one suspected there had been another half. Now, however, you have awakened memories of it in me, and what I have just done is to read its epitaph to you."_

Her stomach knotted. She pulled on the sheets and drew her hands into fists. _Stop reading this,_ her brain screamed, but her lips wouldn't obey. Sensing something had shifted, he put the book in his lap and let silence fill up the room for a moment before finally turning to see her face ashen and her posture tense. Again she willed herself to speak, say anything, anything better than the silence and the weight of the words he had read.

"Red, I - ," and before she could even babble anything out to cover how uncomfortable she felt he covered her balled up hand with his, the tension subsiding at his touch. She stared at their hands for a moment until finally dragging her eyes up to meet his warm and tender expression.

"You know, maybe we could watch a movie? he suggested.

"I have something perfect." She climbed out of bed and rummaged through a few boxes until she came across her DVD collection and grabbed a few favorites. She popped the first movie in and went to get them a snack. When she returned with crackers and cheese, he was staring at the television, eyebrows knit together.

"The Princess Bride?"

"You'll love it. It's got fencing, fighting, monsters, escapes, true love, miracles...sorry, I get carried away because it's one of my favorites and definitely a classic."

"Sounds interesting. I'll try to stay awake," he said, deciding to give it a chance. It had been ages since he had seen an actual movie.

She set the plate on her lap and scooted close to him. He moved closer to the middle of the bed, just a breath now between their bodies, a fact that she played coolly, assuming he needed to be within better reach of the food. They nibbled and watched quietly and comfortably and when they were done, she rolled to put the empty plate on her nightstand.

When she rolled back, his arm was stretched across her pillow, his fingers grazing her shoulder, giving her a light squeeze. Without hesitation, she curled right into his side, her head resting slightly left of his heart.

"This okay?" she said, craning her neck up to see him looking adoringly at her small form. He hummed his approval, drawing her closer. She responded, draping her arm across his chest, the tips of her fingers grazing lightly over the fine hair of his arm.

Neither moved nor spoke for an expanse of time; the blissful feeling of this new closeness practically unreal, the dizzying warmth spreading through their touching bodies almost unbelievable. Being in Red's arms swept a calm through Lizzie, slowing her breathing and eventually, her thoughts. The pleasing weight of Lizzie's body snuggled tightly to his, overwhelming every nerve, every fiber of his being.

He didn't know how it happened, or if the spell would be broken when the sun rose in the morning. All he knew was that his Lizzie was in his arms, for the hour, the day…

Or perhaps the rest of the night. 

* * *

A/N: The selection Red reads to Lizzie is from _A Hero of Our Time_ by Mikhail Lermontov. Your comments make my day!


	6. Chapter 6

The early morning sun streamed gloriously through a tiny gap in the well-appointed drapes, painting their cheeks with warmth. His arm was lazily draped over her hip, her back to him as she curled on her side. His eyelids fluttered at the intrusion but in that moment, he took in the sight of her peaceful profile, dark lashes resting softly against ivory smooth skin. He was overcome with gratitude to witness her at peace; grateful that she was finally in a place where she trusted him enough to drop her guard and rest.

In that moment, like so many others, she overwhelmed him.

She rolled to her back, her heavy lids finally blinking up at him a sleepy good morning. A tiny flinch gave away her brief confusion of what had really happened until she looked around, trying for nonchalance. The weight of his hand still rested on her belly, the feel of it scrambling her thoughts.

"Good morning, Lizzie," he greeted, voice still gravelly and groggy from sleep. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.

"Sorry I fell asleep in here. I don't even remember what happened and now it's morning. Good morning, by the way."

He propped carefully up on an elbow and reaching out slowly, he brushed the stray hair covering her right eye.

"Don't apologize. This is your bed, Lizzie."

She swallowed thickly, looking up at his adoring gaze, easily seeing where this could lead if one of them didn't act now. She pretended to yawn and stretch.

"So, what did you have in mind for today?" she asked as he smiled widely at her, seeing through her thinly veiled act.

"No plans," he lied.

"Good, because it's time we got to your physical therapy," she tossed over her shoulder as she shifted to the edge of the bed, standing and smoothing the wrinkled clothes that she had slept in. She pranced to the kitchen feeling slightly victorious as he grumbled under his breath. She truly would be the death of him, one way or another.

She returned with his morning pills, fruit, granola and juice but when she went to help prop him up, she noticed that he already was sitting.

"I'm going to make us some coffee but after breakfast, we need to get you up and moving. Doctor's orders," she said trying for matter-of-fact. She collected his dishes and headed for the kitchen, attempting once again to ignore his adorable pout

"I've never seen you like this," he slipped and she froze.

"Like what?"

"Domestic. And serving another person," he braced for her wrath, but saw something completely surprising when she turned back to face him.

"You've only ever known Agent Keen. Get to know Elizabeth. I think you might like her," and with that she spun on her heel and flounced out of the room, a smile lighting up her face and somewhat pained expression flooding his.

If she only knew the depth and breadth of his feelings for her. He didn't merely like Elizabeth, no. He was so hopelessly in love with her that the last two years in her presence was some of the worst variety of torture he'd ever experienced. Watching her grow in her career and gain respect caused the greatest feelings of pride to well up in him, but he doubted that she knew it. If she only knew the way he watched the wind flow through her hair and the way it made his unabashed desire for her flow through his veins - bringing love and life to his mangled and neglected heart. If she only knew the glances he stole of her lips when she wasn't looking and the way it raged a fire inside of him; a fiery fear that he would never know the taste of her mouth, her head thrown back in ecstasy, beads of sweat dripping down her neck from the heat that coiled from the two of them mingling together after all the trying, all the hoping, all the desperation to keep each other at arm's length and finally giving in to it.

She went about washing their breakfast dishes, feeling satisfied at her bravery in approaching the subject of the two of them being together in more than just a professional capacity. She knew that he'd thought of it - a woman always knows when a man looks at her that way - a way that speaks a volume without the requirement of words. But even words had failed to explain what had been strangling to get to the surface within Red.

"_You are the only woman in my life, Elizabeth_," he had said.

The only woman. A stunning declaration for Red; a man who seemed to thrive on giving her breadcrumbs and expecting her to produce a feast. He had caught her off guard but perhaps that was his intent. She even found him quite difficult to believe, at first, and since he had uttered those words, the rest had been innuendo and stolen glances. They hadn't talked. She hadn't said the words she'd been meaning to say since the moment she pressed her snowy-white scarf to his chest, begging and pleading with the universe to give her just one more chance.

And now, they had spent the night next to one another, waking in each other's arms and all that it did or did not imply. Playing house with him wouldn't magically fix her past, logically she knew that. Regardless, she couldn't help but think that they were healing each other this week.

As promised, she worked him around the apartment over the next three days, taking note that his endurance was slowly increasing. His patience and cooperation, however, were not, but she toughed through it and reluctantly reminded him that her vacation time was coming to an end. His distant expression in response nearly gave him away and she couldn't help but note that something was going on that she was not privy to. Wasn't the first time, certainly wouldn't be the last but she'd be lying if she didn't think that something had shifted recently – a shift toward a more open and honest line of communication between them.

That night, she strained to eavesdrop on a hushed conversation he was having on the phone that he ended quickly as she approached the room they now shared.

"Did you say something?" she inquired, knowing fully that he had and not in her direction.

"Just wrapping up a call. I think I'm ready to turn in for the night."

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked.

"Just you, beside me," he leveled. A blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks as she smiled and came around to her side of the bed. He held the covers back for her as she crawled in and settled herself. The small kindnesses they shared, many just as small and seemingly insignificant as this one, built upon one another like blocks towering and leaning toward one great conclusion: love. Love for Red. Love for their fledgling relationship or whatever it was. It certainly defied any measure of definition or explanation. For now, love was enough – but telling him would be something else.

Lizzie woke to footsteps in her ensuite, which wouldn't have been unusual until her eyes adjusted on him to see that he was dressed in his usual suiting and standing at her mirror, tying his tie. He was putting his armor on, ready for her distance, ready for things to go back to how they were. The last few weeks could have been an illusion, maybe more like a dream – one that, as long as he could wake up and see her lying next to him, he would always be happy to have. She seemed surprisingly cheerful when he exited the bathroom until she realized he was packing his things.

Then, a strong knock at the door.

"That will Dembe coming to collect me," he said softly, trying to remain ambiguous to what he was really feeling at parting with her and what his business required of him.

She sat upright, hugging her knees to her chest tightly. "Red, are you sure it's a good idea for you to leave?"

"I'll be fine, Lizzie. I'm cleared to fly now and I'm due in France for a meeting by morning. I'll only be gone two weeks."

Two weeks? They had spent an entire week living together and now he was leaving her. Against her judgement and reluctance, she had become accustomed to sharing her home with someone again, to lights on in the house, the sounds of someone moving about rather than coming home to emptiness. Late night chats and shared meals had become too comfortable for her to continue to downplay.

Laying the last of his suit pieces neatly into his garment bag, he pulled the zipper closed slowly, all the while trying to read her thoughts. She stayed still and silent, her downcast expression telling him what she couldn't will her lips to. Crossing to her side of the bed, he slowly sat down, close enough that the fine wool of his slacks brushed the tips of her toes.

"I have surely worn out my welcome here," he finally said, breaking the silence, but not the tension. He didn't realize she was stifling a sob until she tried to laugh but sniffled instead. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing his lips to her temple and letting the coconut milk scent of her hair fill his nostrils.

She took a moment to relish in his warmth and the security she felt by just being close to him. Schooling her expression, she finally tilted her head up to catch him looking down on her with something that looked like concern, and something that resembled longing. He was stalling, he knew it. He knew Dembe was still waiting at the door. He knew his plane was fueled and ready for tonight's transatlantic trip, but there was something about holding her, something about her soft skin under the touch of his fingertips. And he realized how much he was going to miss her.

He leaned in quickly, tipping her chin up and brushed his lips over hers so lightly, so quickly that when she opened her eyes, she questioned that it even happened. The sparkle in his eyes gave him away. It _had_ happened.

She silently watched him go, unable to move, barely able to speak. She tried to utter a good bye but was sure it came out as stifled as she felt, as clenched as her heart seemed at his absence.

The following weeks went by in a supernaturally long fashion. With Red out of the country, there are no active cases at work. Liz tried to bury herself in the mindless paperwork and case notes that she should be doing with her down time but the trouble was, she didn't want any part of any of it. She was wholly unmotivated to produce anything without Red around. She daydreamed often, drawing a Bic blue "R" on the ink blotter on her desk and tracing it over and over until its outline dug through several sheets. She wanted to sit on her balcony with Red and sip Scotch; the Scotch that she still hadn't quite acquired a taste for, but knew one day she would.

Most of all, she wanted another night in his arms and a kiss – and this time, to actively participate. This time, she told herself over and over again, she'd kiss him so fiercely that he'd never leave her side again.

Two weeks slowly crawls and turns into three. Midway into the third week, she receives a text from a blocked number.

"_Everything is fine but taking longer than planned. -R."_

He was okay and thought enough to let her know. She quickly replied, hoping against hope that he would still be on the other end.

"_Good. Just come home to me, soon."_

The reply came just as quick.

"_As you wish."_

He made her heart sing. Soon. Soon he would be home and safe in her arms. Safe and ready to begin whatever was next for them.

Dembe and Red return to the States following the successful conclusion of their summit in France. He no longer requires help in and out of the car and is maneuvering himself around so well he could fool anyone that he was only four weeks out from a serious gunshot wound. Dembe drove them in the direction of Bethesda, assuming a travel weary Red would want to get settled right away in a familiar and comfortable place but Red stops him before he can exit the highway.

"No Dembe, head over to Elizabeth's, please," he asked.

From the front seat, unbeknownst to Red, Dembe flashed a very bright and knowing smile. It was finally happening. These two that have pushed each other away for so long were finally seeking one another out.

He pulled the car up to the door of her apartment building and asked with a small smirk, "Should I wait or should I come back in the morning?"

Red give him a slanted look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dembe spreads his hands wide as if to feign ignorance.

Red chuckled and responded kindly, "Please wait. I have not called ahead and I don't want to intrude on Lizzie's night."

He stepped out of the car and walked up to the driver's window. Dembe rolled it down and handed Red his flip phone, already opened and ringing Lizzie's number. He pressed the phone to his ear and anxiously waited for her to answer.

"Red?" she asked, suspecting.

"Lizzie. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind some company?" he asked, almost hesitatingly.

"Of course I wouldn't mind. I've missed you," she admitted, her words warming him like a crackling fire in its hearth.

He sighed, relieved. "I'll be right up."

The explosion ripped through the thick cinderblock walls of her building, echoing through the quiet night streets and to the end of the phone where Red sat frozen, a ghostly pale quickly covering his face. A cloud of dust and shattered glass rained down from above, littering the ground at his feet.

Despite his best efforts, they had found her. Despite his delusional thoughts and fantasy, they were not above using her to get to him.

"Lizzie? Lizzie!" he shouted, gripping the phone. A sheen of sweat now covered his palms. He stood stock still, his legs feeling weak and his feet feeling cemented in place. All he could do was stare up at the smoky apartment, unaware that the phone slipped from his hand to the ground, unaware that Dembe had come to his side, keeping him on his feet.

* * *

_A/N: Special thanks to MinP1072 for holding my hand and being an amazing friend. When she tells you to bomb the apartment - you bomb the apartment._

_Thanks for reading and reviewing!_


	7. Chapter 7

The burner phone shattered in pieces on the ground at his feet, a cold sweat breaking across his creased brown. A plume of cinder block dust soaked the air around him, clouding his vision and choking out the oxygen. Razor sharp shards of glass fell to the ground around him like daggers, yet time; time seemed to stand still. Time was never a friend to Raymond Reddington.

Ghostly images of Liz swirled around him: her college graduation, her first day as an FBI agent, the way she looked in bed the last time they shared one with the sunlight streaming in through the curtains. Garbled and muffled sounds tried to make their way to him, but the deafening blast left his ears ringing and unable to clearly make what his intuition told him was Dembe calling to him through the stagnant haze. He had no awareness of anything but confusion and sheer terror until two strong, dark hands pulled him to the ground covering his head. Loyal Dembe shielded Red's body with his own until his employer got his feet under him and could no longer be contained, couldn't be held back from getting to her.

Red rushed to her door on what felt like lead feet. Seeing it was opened by buzzer only, he pulled out his pistol and fired two shots into the door's locking mechanism, blowing the wood around it to shreds. He kicked the door open with such force that when it recoiled, it nearly came face to face with Dembe who was closely in tow. They raced the stairs together to the seventh floor when they beheld a grim sight. The corner of the building and its roof had been completely blown off. He cowered a moment from the bright sun that was now spreading its warmth and light into the corridor outside Lizzie's apartment. Red pounded on her door a few times shouting her name. When no answer came, Dembe pushed down on the handle and ran his left shoulder into the door, sending hinges and splinters of wood around the deadbolt ricocheting into the air.

Lizzie's lifeless body lay on the floor in the living room, particles of block and drywall obscuring the clarity of the air between them. Rushing to her side, Red fell to his knees on the floor next to her, running his fingers through her hair. Gently, he lifted the locks that had draped limply across her face, carefully removing the glass fragments that had blown in from the blast. The slack and ashen look on her face accented by the superficial cuts from the glass made him wince; a hollow feeling grew in his gut, spreading quickly to his extremities.

"Lizzie," he whispered as if he were afraid to wake her. "Lizzie!" he finally shouted, praying his voice would.

Lazily, her head rolled to the side, heavy lids struggling to find the light, find his face. The outline of his unmistakable face began to come into focus, his features darkened with the halo of light streaming in from behind him. His taut muscles relaxed, a sigh of inexplicable relief escaping his lips.

"Can you move at all?" he asked stroking her skin around the cuts on her face. She shifted her legs in response then raised her left arm to wind around his neck. Threading his solid hands behind her, he helped her sit slowly. She coughed a few times, burying her head in his shoulder. Enveloping her in his arms, he shushed her and held on for dear life, thankful for every little breath of hers that ghosted over his heated skin, every rapid thump of her heart in her chest banging against his. Her hands slipped off his neck to the floor, her head lulling into the crook of his neck. "Do you think you can stand?

"Maybe, but I feel exhausted. And it's so bright in here," she mumbled, squinting.

"Half your wall and ceiling are missing, Lizzie. We need to get you someplace safe to stay until this can be repaired," he lied. He couldn't tell her, wouldn't tell her that she could never come back. For the moment, he'd have to shove down the need to shift into seek and destroy mode, to obliterate any and all enemies that would _dare _attempt to harm even a hair on his Lizzie's head. For the moment, he just needed to keep her calm and get the hell out of there.

Dembe came to their aide, helping Red get her off the floor. Together, they walked her out, supporting her sides equally as she tried to keep her arms wrapped around each of them. Carefully, they tucked her into the back seat of the car and closed her door. The two men looked knowingly at each other, neither a stranger to one of Red's loved ones being sought out, attacked.

"Dembe, she may have a concussion. Have Kate meet us at the flat in an hour. Keep this quiet, okay? I don't want to alarm Elizabeth," Red instructed. He rounded the car and slid into the back seat next to Lizzie, who slouched in her seat and remained quiet during the short ride to Red's apartment. When Red saw her head flop lazily to the side out of the corner of his eye, he shot up in his seat, reaching out to turn her head back to him. His warm hand trembled against her cheek, his fear for her safety physically manifesting itself against his will. Given that, he was relieved that there were still things he could keep hidden: elevated pulse, racing thoughts, a nervous need to feel the warm wool of his hat between his fingers.

Looking into her eyes, he steadied himself with a deep breath.

Her eyes.

Over the years, her lips spat poison at him, her mouth brought forth a raging tide of anger and confusion, but her eyes; when she looked on him, her eyes betrayed what she couldn't will with words.

"Sweetheart, I really need you to stay awake right now. Can you do that for me?" he pled, his palm still cupping her cheek. She nodded, lazily. He folded her into his arms, pulling her across the seat and flush against him. Curling into his chest, warm and strong, she let her head rest first on his shoulder then roll forward onto his chest. The bump and sway of the car jostled her in her seat, and after giving it a moment's thought, she draped her legs across his. His hand instinctively moved to rest on her knees, the other low on the curve of her back.

God, it felt good.

She flattened her hand against his chest, tracing small circles with her thumb. That's when she noticed their reflection in the tinted window, his strong arms encircling her and moving slowly on the gentle curves of her body. How well they fit together.

Minutes later, the car came to a stop at a five floor walk-up apartment building. Lizzie lifted her head, sleepily looking around at unrecognizable surroundings.

"Where are we?"

"Someplace safe. Come on," he informed, his jaw set tight, working to keep the urgency that threatened to creep into his voice tame.

Of all the safe houses he'd let her in over the years, this was definitely a weird one. Though they started to blur together after the first year, there was no denying he had a style: sleek, modern, secluded. High-brow. This place was nothing of the sort.

The front entrance was a simple key lock, the evergreen carpeting in the hallway had a worn track in down the middle and the floorboards beneath revealed their age with every step. As they reached the door to apartment 4F, it's inconspicuous, tarnished brass numbers made her wonder at what point it would all change. Behind this door was surely a suite of luxurious leather sofas, pristine glass-topped tables replete with plush carpeting and cold, contemporary art. Turning the key in the lock, he pushed the door open for her and stood to the side so she could walk in first.

Contrary to her expectations, this hideaway was warm, well lived in. Her feet seemed unresponsive after only a few steps in, unable to reconcile what she was seeing with everything she knew about Reddington to date. The mid-century apartment held a piano, bookshelves filled with classic American and Russian literature, and photographs of her and what she imagined were his parents.

A portrait on the wall set in a glimmering gold frame caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. As she turned her head toward it, it didn't take her long to realize it was an old photograph of Red with a woman and a little girl she had never seen. Hot tears sprung to her eyes unbidden and she knew with certainty that she was one of few to see this place, as it was with the other safe houses. Seeing the photo reminded Lizzie that it was she that was in his space - seeing something about him he didn't show to others. Not Ressler, not Samar or Aram. She shared a level of intimacy with Red that few did.

And then, his presence was close behind her, strong and steady. He put his hand on the small of her back, warm and reassuring. Somehow, it was okay. He was okay letting her in. When he saw the tear fall from her jawline, he rested his hands atop her shoulders and she immediately leaned back into him, their bodies flush. He ran his hands up and down her arms at feeling a shiver run through her, though not from the cold. After a moment of relishing their closeness, she turned in his arms, their faces mere inches apart. Red's breath caught in his throat, the anticipation of kissing Lizzie again palpable and mingling in the air between them. Their eyes connected for an electric moment of expectation before she pushed herself up on her toes and brushed her lips against his in a whisper soft kiss. Landing on her heels, she ran a hand nervously through her hair, looking for an easy segue into whatever was supposed to come next. Surely, there was something. Raymond Reddington always had a plan. Often, she imagined the elaborate playbook existing only in his mind and wondered how he would be when the unexpected caused him to go off book.

"Hey, I um, I should lie down. Do you have a guest room in this place?"

"Dembe occupies the guest room when he stays with me, but I've had my room made up for you," he informed her, motioning toward the hallway. She obliged and allowed him to lead her to his room. It was simple, functional, with taut bedsheets that reminded her of a Navy bunk, and a small en suite bathroom. They stared in silence at the bed, the unspoken question nagging at the back of Lizzie's mind.

"And you'll be sleeping?"

"On the couch. You need to rest and recover right now," he advised, a sad smile playing across his lips.

"I'm fine, Red. I just need a nap and I'll be good as new."

"Not until I'm done with you, dearie." They both turned to the doorway where Mr. Kaplan had appeared, a black leather zippered bag in one hand and her usual disapproving look giving even her small stature a fiery and powerful presence.

"Red, is this really necessary?" Lizzie quizzed, her hand lazily referring to Mr. Kaplan as if she weren't standing there.

Pushing her way into the room, Mr. Kaplan set her bag on the foot of the bed and opened it. She laid a few instruments on the bed before snapping on some exam gloves and ushering Red out of the room.

"We'll call for you when we're through," she informed Red, closing the door before turning back to Lizzie, who looked as stricken as ever.

"Now, surely you know that head trauma like you've experienced today can cause a concussion. We need to be sure." Picking up her penlight, she checked both of Lizzie's eyes. She clicked her bony fingers next to each ear, checking her sensitivity to sound before subjecting her to rapid-fire questions. Normal. "You don't appear to have a concussion, but take it easy today anyway. That shouldn't be difficult staying here with Raymond. He'll take care of all your needs."

"Thank you, Mr. Kaplan," she said, offering as reassuring a smile as she could summon. How could she explain that, whatever her physical state, someone had still tried to kill her earlier that day? She thought if anyone would understand, it would be Kate. Someone who dealt in death like some deal in art or finance. And what did she mean about Red taking care of her needs?

Kate caught Red staring out of the living room window, so focused on thought that he didn't notice her standing there, watching him.

"Elizabeth is fine; she doesn't have a concussion," she paused a moment, seeing the sudden slack in his shoulders before continuing. "But Raymond, she's been through a lot today. It would be best to let her rest tonight," she eyed him curiously as he turned sharply, feigning offense at her supposition.

The things one could slide by Kate Kaplan were few. He tried to deny to himself how tangled he had become with Elizabeth, tried to deny it to Mr. Kaplan in fear of her certain admonishment. But as much as he knew that the more their two lives twisted into one the more dangerous life would become for them both was as much as he smiled at just the _thought_ of her.

He schooled his expression to one of indifference for the benefit of Mr. Kaplan then saw her out, locking the door behind her.

And finally. They were alone.

* * *

_A/N: You guys. There is literally no excuse for the amount of time it has taken me to get to this. Rest assured the final chapter is in beta and will be up soon. Thanks for your patience and for sticking with me_

_P.S. You know what's coming next..._


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